Holmes Is Where the Heart Is
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly is going crazy anticipating bad news. Will Sherlock break her heart again? Sherlolly


Molly Hooper was pacing the sitting room of her small flat in a nervous dither. She had tried sitting calmly on her couch, pretending that all was well, but had given up after about seven minutes to walk distractedly around the room. Something must be wrong. Sherlock Holmes had called her. Not texted, but called. That in itself was highly irregular. But the call itself was even stranger. Sherlock Holmes, mister "I'll just pop in who needs permission", had spoken to her, asking if she could pay her a visit! Molly's stomach tensed as her mind created dreadful scenarios.

He had a fatal disease, and was coming over to make his farewells? No. She was a doctor, after all, and Sherlock seemed to be in the best of health. He had deduced that SHE had a fatal disease, and was coming over to break the news gently? Ridiculous! She would certainly know if she were dying, and besides, Sherlock was not one to break news gently. She imagined the following scenario.

"_Molly, I have deduced that you have an inoperable brain tumor. You will be dead in exactly three point four weeks. Please make arrangements for my continued access to St. Bart's lab. Don't worry about your cat. I will have him euthanized and buried with you. Good day!_"

Or, worst of all, he would walk through her door, announcing that, despite all his protestations, he had found true love and was settling down with the woman of his dreams. She hadn't seen him for almost three weeks. This in itself was no cause for concern, as they had certainly gone for much longer periods with communicating with each other. But John Watson, his best friend and sometime crime solving partner, had confided that the detective was currently working on a scam centering around a computer dating service. No actual dead bodies, so no reason for him to haunt her morgue. Maybe he had found himself a phi beta kappa supermodel whose experiments will soon end world hunger, cure cancer, and bring peace to the world. All in all, Molly thought that she would prefer the brain tumor scenario.

For most of her life Molly Hooper had been the smartest person in her kindergarten, her primary school, and possibly even at University. But she had been picked on and derided for this, and had made herself less of a target by withdrawing. She became the quiet kid sitting in the corner, the studious girl hiding in the library. Those who chose to get close enough found her to be remarkably kind, funny, and generous. And lovely. But she tended to treat her intellect as something private, using it, of course, in her studies and career, but not trotting it out for public display.

Then, seven years ago, Sherlock Holmes had entered the lab at St. Bart's, accompanied and introduced by DI Greg Lestrade, and her life had changed. Here was a man who certainly didn't hide his intellect, but shoved it in your face. He was brilliant, arrogant, egotistical and, physically speaking, beautiful. Molly Hooper was lost. It started as a mad crush, making her virtually incoherent when he was near. It moved on to infatuation as she grew accustomed to, and appreciative of, his presence. She realized she was truly and madly in love with him when she saw how lost, and even vulnerable, he had become during the whole Moriarty business. She saw what others couldn't, or didn't want to, see. When he told her that she counted, she believed him. And so, she helped him die.

In the early years of their acquaintance, Sherlock Holmes had belittled, insulted and ignored her on many occasions, not through any deliberate desire to do such things, but simply due to a complete ignorance of simple social norms. He had even managed to break her heart on a few occasions without even knowing it. There was, of course, the infamous Christmas party, where he had humiliated her in front of his friends. But they were also HER friends, and Molly stood tall and expressed her hurt. To the surprise of everyone in the room, including herself, Sherlock sincerely apologized, even kissing her cheek.

Shortly thereafter he had identified the corpse of Irene Adler in Molly's morgue by simply examining her body, not her face, making her cringe inside. She had discovered that Miss Adler had been a rather successful dominatrix known simply as the "The Woman". The tiny pathologist had visited her website, and discovered that the woman was, indeed, beautiful. She tried to imagine herself dressed in a leather corset holding a riding crop, but the mere thought made her burst into giggles, which seemed inappropriate considering the woman's recent demise. Molly somehow doubted that a giggling dominatrix would inspire fear or respect in her clients. She had always tried to console herself with the fact that Sherlock simply was not interested in the physical rules of attraction. Now she became more convinced that it was simply she who didn't attract him.

And so, over time, Molly had, in fact, given up on imagining a life with Sherlock. She had tried to move on, even going so far as to become engaged to a very nice man named Tom while the detective had been away from London, presumably dead, but really dismantling Moriarty's criminal network. But as soon as he had returned, as a somewhat kinder and gentler version, Molly knew her engagement was an exercise in futility. Sherlock was, is, and probably always would be, the love of her life. But she no longer had any illusions about him. He was as flawed as any man. When he went back to using drugs (for a case, he had insisted) she had slapped him, multiple times, as hard as she could. Each slap probably hurt her more than it hurt him. He responded insultingly, and she hardened her heart. But it was still hard to hear about his "engagement' shortly therefore. He had met Janine at John and Mary's wedding, while she was still with Tom. Janine was beautiful, where Molly was mousey; tall as opposed to diminutive. Molly had curves, but they were easily hidden by her baggy clothes and even baggier lab coats. Janine couldn't hide her curves if she tried. And she definitely didn't try! John had found her at Baker Street, wearing Sherlock's shirt and nothing else. (Molly hoped it wasn't the purple one. That would surely wreak havoc on many of her more colorful fantasies!) They had kissed as they said goodbye. And not a peck on the cheek. Of course, Janine was decent enough to return the engagement ring as soon as she found out the detective had been using her to get to her boss. It didn't matter to her because she made a lot more than the ring was worth selling a salacious story to the tabloid press, involving sexual gymnastics going on at the Baker Street flat. Sherlock had assured her that he had never been seriously interested in the fiery Janine, and Molly tended to believe him, primarily because it was her engagement he had given to his "fiancee", stolen from her locker where she had left it in anticipation of returning it to Tom. In the end, Sherlock got the bad guy, Janine made a small fortune, Tom got his ring back (eventually) and Molly went home to her cat. Such was her life at the moment.

So, here was Molly Hooper, pacing the floor of her sitting room, trying not to think about the man who would shortly appear at her door.

She thought about her job. She was successful. The youngest chief pathologist that St. Bart's had ever had. She was respected by her colleagues, and loved by her friends. Just not loved by Sherlock Holmes! _Change the subject, you git! _she thought to herself.

She liked her flat. It was just large enough, with a spare bedroom for overnight guests. She had decorated it comfortably. It was in a nice neighborhood, close to the hospital. Close to Baker Street. _Time for another subject change!_

Toby, her elderly ginger tabby, brushed against her leg, as if sensing her dismay. She stooped to pick him up, thinking about all the cats she had loved through the years. Looking for something to distract her from her growing sense of foreboding, Molly counted cats, realizing that Toby was the fifth cat in her life. Given her life expectancy, and a cat's life expectancy, she could probably look forward to owning three or four more. The thought struck her that four more would mean that she would have nine cats in her life. Nine cat lives. In her life. _Oh my god_, she thought,_ I'm going crazy! Maybe I should start naming them now! Oh bloody hell, I've heard of woman daydreaming about naming their future children, and here I am considering names for future cats. How many names will I need? Will I turn into a crazy old cat lady, with my spare room filled with litter boxes and cat toys?_

It was just then that Sherlock saved her, not from becoming a crazy old cat lady, but at least from thinking about it too much, by rapping gently at her front door instead of entering without warning.

_Oh, my god, it's worse than I thought! He actually knocked!_

Molly dropped Toby gently to the floor, took a deep breath, and went to open her door. Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, stood in her hallway looking down at his feet. When he finally lifted his eyes to her face, a look of concern came over his features.

"Molly, are you alright? You look awfully pale. Are you sick? Have you eaten?" He put his hand to her forehead as he led her to her couch. "You don't feel feverish. Are you nauseated at all…"

"Just tell me what this is all about, Sherlock!"

Sherlock was taken aback by her quiet demand, but recovered quickly. "What do you mean, Molly?"

"Sherlock, you actually CALLED me. Not texted. Called. Then you asked if you come over. Asked! Is Moriarty alive? Again? How many lives does that bastard have?" She continued, almost hysterically, "He can't be alive. I saw head. Or what was left of his head…"

"Molly, calm down. Moriarty is well and truly dead. I certainly didn't mean to frighten you like this. I was just being polite."

"Sherlock, you being polite is frightening in and of itself. So, what is it? Are you dying? Am I dying?"

"I am not dying, Molly. Neither are you, unless you've got something to tell me. Why would you think I would know that you were dying before you did?"

"How the bloody hell should I know? Maybe you would notice a slight disparity in the rate of dilation of the pupils of my eyes, and extrapolate a fatal brain tumor? Maybe an insignificant change in the scent of my perspiration indicating a cancerous growth? You deduce things all the time! You would tell me if I was dying, right? I have to…"

"Molly, you're not dying. Unless you drive me to…"

"Well, that leaves only one thing I can think of. I hope you'll be very happy…"

"I hope I'll be happy too, but I'm still not following you."

"Sherlock, I've known you for a long time. I can see you better than others. You don't seem content living on your own anymore. You've become more socialized. You admit that you care about people…"

"Some people…"

"Stop interrupting me! I've seen the way you look at John and Mary, and little Claire. I've seen less and less of you lately…"

"Molly, I've been busy…"

"Yes, John told me you were working on that case involving that computer dating service. That it fascinated you. I just assumed that you had seen the logic in matching people up scientifically and that you would be tempted to go that route, if you were to consider becoming emotionally involved…"

Sherlock was a bit baffled by her comments, and for a change seemed speechless.

"So, you've met somebody, then?", Molly asked with a simulated smile on a cheerless face.

"I finished that case two weeks ago, Molly. I decided that there were too many flaws in their algorithms." His words came hesitantly, as if he was trying to concentrate on something else as he spoke.

Sherlock finally deduced what was going on in his pathologist's mind. He had tried to abide by social norms, be considerate of her feelings, and all he had succeeded in doing was scaring the bloody hell out of her! He had long ago come to the conclusion that he did, indeed, care about his friends, some more than others. In one instance, much more than others. How could his Molly possibly believe that there was anybody else? He almost laughed at how her ridiculous her assumptions were. But laughing at this precise moment could result in something being thrown at his head, or, alternatively, a complete mental breakdown on the part of his pathologist and friend. He WAS envious of John and Mary, of their relationship. That was true. He had changed his views on the value of sentiment, no longer seeing it as a disadvantage. He now knew that it was his lack of understanding of the value of emotion which had caused his problems, his blind spot. Now was the time to recognize the error of his ways, and overcome them.

"Molly…" Sherlock took her hands in his, "I have, indeed, met someone. Someone who makes me very happy, although I am sure that she cannot say the same about me!"

Molly took a deep breath, and held it. Then she held it a little longer. And longer.

"For god's sake, breathe, you idiot!"

Molly let the air out of her lungs, and seemed to sit deflated on the couch next to him. Sherlock had not let go of her hands. "I met her seven years ago. At St. Bart's morgue."

Molly had felt the tears start to form in her eyes, until she processed what he was saying. Now she looked up at him.

"And lately I have been really trying to treat her better, hoping she may get an inkling of a clue about how I feel. But it seems the more polite I become, the crazier she gets. Tell me Molly, does insanity run in your family?" Molly was now staring at him with mouth agape. Sherlock continued, "If it does, we may want to consider adoption. My side of the family is certainly unstable enough without me diving into another questionable gene pool!"

He now moved closer, taking her in his arms. "I really don't want to upset you, but I will probably continue to try to be nice to you. Is that alright?"

Molly nodded.

"I may occasionally want to actually hear your voice to on the phone, but I promise to text you first to tell you I want to speak to you. Okay?"

"Now you're just making fun of me."

"Yes, I am. To continue, about asking permission to come over, and actually knocking at your door. That was terrible of me, and I apologize."

Molly now giggled, and swatted at his arm.

"But it won't happen again because I fully expect you move into Baker Street, if it's convenient. Even if it's not convenient. Bring the cat, if you must."

It was at this point that the serious snogging started. At a most inopportune moment, Molly whispered into Sherlock's ear as he played with the buttons on her blouse, " I have to tell you that I will probably have three or four more cats…"

"What?!"

"Not all at once. One at a time. Over the next forty or fifty years. I just thought you should know." She softened the blow by nibbling on his ears and curling her fingers in his hair.

"Just so you don't turn into a crazy cat lady. Although 'crazy' may be a moot point."

"I don't think there's much of a chance of that now, do you? I don't need a houseful of cats if I have you to pet, do I? What do you think of the name Nicholas. Nicky, for short?"

"For our son first son?"

"No, for our next cat."

"I prefer Mycroft for the cat. Nicholas will do for the child."


End file.
